I can still smell the inside of my dad’s lunchbox to this day. Old bread, musty cheese and damp paper napkin would float up to my nose every time I opened the lid. I can conjure that smell up any time I want.
It was a plastic black lunchbox with two latches. There was a spot for his thermos in the lid which had some metal work holding it in place. In the main compartment was a napkin from many lunches ago that was folded to carpet the bottom of his lunchbox. The napkin held an array of old crumbs and various stains. Perhaps it was replaced with a new folded napkin every once in a while, but not often.
My job was to make his lunch every morning for him. So, what does a small girl of six or seven make for her dad’s lunch? Cheese sandwiches of course! There were no sharp knives to hinder progress or slice my tiny fingers. We used the cheese that came sliced and wrapped in plastic. I loved the yellow rubbery square and the stickiness as I wrestled it to the bread slice on the counter top. Then came the glob of mayo that was so thick when I pressed the sandwich together, it oozed out the sides. I always made two sandwiches for my dad.
No good cheese sandwich is worth its weight in mayo without a handful of potato chips. I would put these into a plastic baggie as full as I could. We were not the richest people in the boondocks, our plastic baggies didn’t come with a zipper. If you over stuff the baggie you couldn’t fold them over to keep food in.
I would take another plastic wrapped item of food to offer to the smorgasbord. It was a twinkie. Sometimes he would walk by as I was placing it into his lunchbox and ask for two. If I was feeling daring with my culinary skills, I would instead give him a chocolate ho-ho or a pudding cup.
I didn’t want my dad starve nor did I want him to eat just junk, a box of raisins and a few carrot sticks added some nutrition at least. I was allowed to use the carrot peeler. I used a butter knife to cut off the ends.
Next came the other big thing I was allowed to do, or at least knew how to do it, so no adult ever said much. I could make coffee. It was pretty easy for a little girl like me. I remember filling up the coffee pot with water and hopping up on the counter. I would watch as the water filled up the tank. I would then place a new filter into the basket and start adding coffee grounds. So, I am thinking back over forty years and I am pretty sure I had no idea how many “scoops” to put in. I don’t recall a magic number like “three scoops” or “four scoops”. It was a different random amount every morning. It must have been good, because I never had any complaints. I would fill his thermos, tightly close the cap and secure it in place.
I remember the importance of it all. I was a little girl who was trusted with the big job of packing my dad’s lunch almost every morning. I loved that job. It was a bright spot in my small life.
Chris Writes 